


Let Me Handle This

by RedundantHarpoons



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Divergence at Episode 3 End, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18750433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedundantHarpoons/pseuds/RedundantHarpoons
Summary: Every problem has a solution.





	Let Me Handle This

**Author's Note:**

> I read Westerns growing up, because I'm butch like that, and when Louis L'Amour would write dialogue in other languages he would start the first bit of the dialogue with a word or two from that language in italics, then the rest of it in English, so that you knew they were speaking another language (usually Spanish) and then could follow along without needing a separate translation section. I mostly tried to stick with that, since I haven't taken French since 2003.

Things were simpler with Marian gone, Anne mused as she sat by the small fire. Not altogether different from the time she’d spent at Shibden as a young girl. No one complaining about the muddy boots beneath her, or the way she trudged in well after the dinner hour with not so much as an explanation to anyone about where she’d been.

Where she’d been . . . Crow Nest. No, she’d not been able to “stay all night,” as dear Ann had wanted, sweet, delightful Ann. Anne smiled in spite of herself, looking wistfully into the sherry she’d fixed herself, rubbing her finger along the embossed glass.

When Mrs. Priestley had barged in— _quite rude,_ something Anne might have done, certainly, but none other—Anne had been so certain it had all been ending there. Another whirlwind, another beautiful woman, another lover barely within her grasp, wrenched away.

Sweet, delightful Ann with that intoxicating, unexpected laughter. Anne was still smiling when she brought the sherry to her lips, and she didn’t mind that she fancied she could still smell Ann on her fingers.

Oh how she wished she could have stayed all night, but there was much too much to do. Yes, looking after Aunt Anne now that Marian wasn’t around to do it—Anne supposed she was good for some things, after all—keeping the household in order, and then there was _Sowden._

He’d been expected all day, and her own long day out didn’t seem to interfere, he’d not shown anywhere near the Hall all day. She tapped the sherry glass in annoyance, her fingernail _tink-_ ing quietly in the still room. If he were to disappear altogether, well, the world would be better off she was sure. But a man like that, they had a nasty habit of underestimating her. She expected she might find him on Pickles’ cart in a few days, or falling out of the tavern to make some lewd comment to her or whoever might catch his ire. His poor boy, perhaps.

She pursed her lips, annoyed at the unpleasant turn her thoughts had taken, and willed them back to Ann. It wasn’t difficult, it was where her mind most liked to go as of late. Six months. Six months could— _would_ fly by. She had her renovations at Shibden to attend to, there was the matter of sinking her own pits if the Rawson’s failed to come to her side of things, there was still work to be done to see if, in fact, Rawson _had_ been the one who lost that poor boy his leg . . . yes, there was plenty to do to keep Anne busy these six months.

Far more agreeable than the work to be done, however, was that Ann apparently saw no reason to be fettered by society’s expectations of them if Anne were to have been a gentleman suitor. They’d need no aunt or cousin chaperone, no clandestine meetings just to share a peck on the lips. Anne bit her lip as she grinned, and when she raised her glass again, she breathed deep.

Six months would be nothing at all.

_“I think you have every reason to hope.”_

Dear, agreeable, surprisingly eager Ann.

As she let her weary head fall back against the high wood back of the chair, Anne let her eyes fall shut, hoping to find herself back at Crow Nest, in a room brighter, more elegant than this, and with company much more agreeable than her lonesome self.

Her frown had fully set before she opened one eye toward the back of the house. A moment’s peace had always been hard to come by at Shibden. At Crow Nest and more palatial estates the servants moved about nearly unseen, and Anne had noticed with much appreciation that James was happy to spend time outdoors when she came calling. But this wasn’t Crow Nest, and while servants were about, she could _hear_ them, a reminder that she in fact was not “staying all night” with Ann, but she was back. Here. At shabby little Shibden.

The _tink tink tink_ against her glass filled the room once more as she regarded the hall down which she could see the movement of shadows cast by firelight in the kitchens.

John Booth. Eugenie. John and Eugenie.

It would never cease to amaze Anne how even those who knew her would ever underestimate her. Did they think she didn’t know, that she hadn’t seen? No, she was not _so inclined_ herself, toward the motherhood and all that business, but even a jaunty trip from Wibsey in the high-flyer wouldn't cause such a sickness as all that.

Now, whose it was, she couldn’t be sure. She could be sure it wasn’t John Booth’s of course. Who knows how he’d been mixed up in all this? He’d always seemed a good man, at least so far as the world had of good men to offer. Perhaps he’d fallen on some other man’s sword. Perhaps if Eugenie wasn’t falling on the man’s sword in the first place she wouldn’t be in this mess.

Anne grunted as she straightened up in her chair, letting her knees fall wide and resting her now-empty sherry glass atop one as she _tinked_ away at it.

Someone in Paris, no doubt. But not someone Eugenie loved, else she’d not have been so quick to sign-on as Anne’s lady’s maid. Perhaps she’d drawn a bad lot. Someone like Sowden, most likely, or worse. Anne sighed. This was likely for the best. Eugenie really had nothing else, no one else, and John had cared for his girls well enough.

 _But her lady’s maid._ This behavior wouldn’t do.

“Eugenie!” Anne called out, paying little mind to anyone in the Hall that might already be sleeping, “Eugenie!”

She didn’t rise, nor did she bother to look as she waited, and soon a quick shuffle was heard from the kitchen. When Anne did finally look to her, Eugenie stood as she often did, quiet and delicate, acting half as though she feared Anne would strike her.

Anne didn’t, and would never, but she was glad that her gaze kept the girl cowering at least somewhat. It was good, as far as Anne was concerned, that she recognized how badly she’d made a mess of things. It was quite some time of pained, pointed silence before Anne simply raised a brow, “ _Mariage,_ Eugenie _?”_

The girl lifted her head slightly, not so close to meet Lister’s penetrating stare, and refolded her hands, nodded, and performed the smallest curtsy, “ _Ou-oui, madame,_ if you would allow it.”

“ _Porquoi?_ ” Why indeed. Why the marriage? Or why should Anne allow it? Anne fully expected an answer to both.

Eugenie faltered, and looked side to side across the floor, but never up, never to Lister’s eyes, before whispering quietly, “ _Ét-Était amour—_ “

“ _Amour?”_ Anne spit the word out as though it offended her, sitting straighter in her chair, but quieting slightly as the girl flinched. Anne’s low, insistent tone was half whisper, but all seriousness, “Do you take me for a fool, Eugenie?”

If she knew how to answer, she didn’t have a chance as Anne’s voice picked up as much tempo as vitriol, “Because _I’m not,_ and I won’t be played as one, least not by my own servants.”

Did Anne know what she intended for Eugenie? Not at all, but she knew she hated . . . _something_. Not Eugenie. She couldn’t fault the girl for giving in to her natural inclinations, lest she call the kettle black. Certainly the stupid child could have been smarter, had whatever mistake she’d bedded pull himself out quicker, but there was nothing to do for it now.

She didn’t hate Eugenie, she didn’t hate John, she didn’t hate the— _the baby_. She hated that thing, that thing in life that left her spending her nights alone in her sitting room while this servant, this stupid girl was to have a family, this girl had someone to be with her, to sit with her and their children . . .

It wasn’t Eugenie’s fault, Anne had to remind herself.

“ _De toute façon_ , you’ve . . . tried to get rid of it, Eugenie?” Even when she forced herself to be calm, as nurturing as she could, it didn’t come easy. How strange, she thought briefly to herself, that she could summon up the sweetest words and the softest whispers for Ann, but here?

A long pause, and an awkward nod, a quiet whisper, “ _Ça n'a pas marché._ ”

“ _Non_ ,” Anne said flatly, leaning forward in her chair and filling her glass once more, never taking her appraising glare from the girl, “I imagine it didn’t, else you wouldn’t be mixing my other servants up in your mess.”

“ _Je—“_

“ _Ne pas,”_ Anne stopped Eugenie’s protest with a quick, quiet command, and settled back in her chair. There wasn’t much to be done about it, if she’d not been able to rid herself of it by now. The baby would come. She had to credit Eugenie; finding a man like John was probably the best she could expect, given the circumstances. Still, it wouldn’t do. She was pensive for a moment, while Eugenie shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“ _Quand?_ I won’t ask whose it is, I don’t care. I’m sure it’s not John’s, though it's clear to me you meant to pass it off as his to keep me in the dark,” Anne waved her hand to stop the oncoming second protest, “Just tell me _when_ it’s coming.”

The way Eugenie’s fingers fidgeted, folded against her dress, she was counting, and Anne tried her best to count along with the flinches, to not be lied to again. It was difficult, as all she could think of was how Eugenie’s rough, cracked fingers were so different than Ann's beautiful, soft hands.

“ _S-sept mois, je pense, madame.”_

Seven months. Little time was spent counting backwards, confirmed now it’d have been Paris, then, and no one in Halifax, thank God. Instead, Anne’s mind began to churn away quickly and efficiently. Seven months. May.

“ _Est-ce que tu le veux?_ ” Anne raised an eyebrow in inquiry, and finally Eugenie looked up. Anne wondered if this were the first time anyone had asked her that, if it was the first time Eugenie had thought about it herself, “After all, if you tried to get rid of it before it was born, do you want to keep it once it's here?”

Eugenie hesitated, looking toward the hall with the distant shadows, the darkened stairs above, “ _Je ne sais pas, madame,”_ she whispered.

The glass _clunked_ loudly on the oaken table as she set it aside, running her hand roughly down her face. She was tired, and even the scent of Ann couldn’t chase away the weight she felt upon her.

Ann.

_I think I’ve told you that I’ve always been very fond of children._

Ann.

_I did at one time feel an inclination . . ._

Ann.

“ _Ça ne va pas._ I can’t have my footman marrying my lady’s maid,” Anne announced with such a suddenness and conviction that Eugenie started, having felt the uncomfortable silence would go on forever.

Eugenie breathed deep, and nodded, and Anne thought she might be on the verge of tears.

“ _Arrêter de pleurer,”_ It was interesting, something for Anne to unpack later, that she could kiss away Ann's tears with such tenderness, then be so abrasive as she warned the girl who stood before her to stop sniveling, “I’m not sending you off, if that’s what you’re afraid of, Lord knows how you’d get along in Halifax on your own in—your state,” Anne sighed heavily, “No, you’ll stay on, with me.”

Eugenie relaxed somewhat, as well as she could while Anne Lister continued to watch her with that appraising stare.

“ _Sept mois est trop court,”_ Anne went on, adopting a plain tone she might use when discussing the weather or the rents, “Anyone would know it’s not his at this rate.”

Eugenie nodded ruefully.

“ _Il est,_ ” Anne stretched the kink from her neck with a quiet grunt, “Good of John to want to help you, but it won’t fool anyone, even the grand scholars of Halifax, such as they are here.”

Another sad, quiet nod.

Anne was not a wealth of comfort and smiles for her servants, particularly ones who had made such stupid mistakes and left the mess as hers to clean up for them. This, however, could possibly be turned in her favor if she were clever enough, if Ann continued to be as agreeable as she had been thus far.

After all, if a good, Christian man raising a child that wasn’t his was so admirable, would it not be just as admirable for two good, Christian women to do the same? And Ann had seemed so very agreeable. And if this was what she feared, that joining her fate to Anne’s would keep her from _motherhood_ , was this not the answer to it all, or as close an answer as Anne would be able to provide?

No, Anne was not a wealth of comfort and smiles for her servants, but this time, as she rose from her chair and patted Eugenie awkwardly on the shoulder, she did smile, “ _Laisse-moi m'en occuper.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I don't like kids.  
> Also me: Writes fanfic exclusively about WLWs getting kids.


End file.
